


Your Ex-Lover is Dead

by sshysmm



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Attempted Sexual Assault, Blood, F/M, Sexual Content, The Hanging Tree
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-11
Updated: 2015-04-11
Packaged: 2018-03-22 07:25:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3720190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sshysmm/pseuds/sshysmm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Athos had reached Milady's carriage in time to go to Le Havre? Would he leave his new role as Captain behind, could the two of them find a way to live happily as they once had? The two of them confront their past and try to work out exactly what it is that they need from each other. They rapidly begin to suspect that they have both changed too much for a happily ever after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Ex-Lover is Dead

_She has just stepped out into the street and he notices the flash of colour instantly. He swings his head to look, feeling the smile spread across his face. Blue and yellow dress falling gently down to cover her feet as she reaches the bottom of the stairs; glossy dark curls bounce over her shoulders and back; he surveys the pale expanse of skin from the top of her bodice to her chin, its alluring smoothness broken only by a striking mole or two. Her mouth is a little parted, the lips full and caught in a perpetual smirk, and her eyes…green and mocking and now fixed right on him._

_Olivier feels the heat rise, prickling, from the back of his neck, moving around his throat and up his cheeks. He doesn’t look away, lets his smile widen. She doesn’t look down demurely like all the girls in Pinon would if the Comte’s eldest son stared as he is now staring. A hint of confusion, curiosity maybe, crosses her face and she grins broadly back._ So this is what the girls of Paris are like, _Olivier marvels._

 

He feels drunk. He isn’t, but the sensation coursing through him is utterly familiar. The cooling evening air swoops past his face, chilling his temples where the sweat is gathering, the rhythm of his horse’s hoof beats is the only sound he can hear apart from the hot buzzing of the blood in his head. He urges his horse faster, eyes prickling as he squints at the sky, wishing for a cloudless evening and a clearer sunset. His thoughts rush through his mind too quickly to concentrate on, slipping from any attempt at scrutiny like they do after the fifth bottle. His chest is tight and his hands grip the reins like they’d grip a cup or the neck of a flask; he is plunging, breathless, furious, terrified into the chase, riding as recklessly as he pours when the need is upon him. Mud spatters up from the road like wine rebounding from the edge of a vessel.

                He can’t be too late.

                He can’t be on time.

                The consequences of either are too awful to comprehend, so he rides like he drinks: wholly, with utter devotion to the process, to the journey, to just reaching a conclusion that will devastate him anyway. When he is like this he has no friends, companions or colleagues. Their concern is an alien concept. It is nothing to him whether anyone wonders where the new Captain of the Musketeers has gone or who is to lead them in the war with Spain. He is alone, drowning, sharing an imagined loss of breath, his watering eyes blurring the surroundings. Some fanciful part of him supposes that he might ride so fast that he could slough off the past six years, leave them behind and find himself galloping across the fields at Pinon towards the cheerful call of his wife.

                This thought causes a sharp intake of breath. She’s waiting for him.

                _I want to be as I once was with you_.

                The land rises gently as the road leaves the straggling edges of Paris behind and the wind grows a little stronger with no trees or buildings to interrupt its progress. It buffets him from the side and he frowns, pushing away thoughts of the hands that have reached for him at the end of long nights; Aramis, Porthos, now D’Artagnan too; a friendly slap on the arm that makes him sway. He braces himself against the wind’s pressure and lowers his head, shouting encouragement at his horse.

                He can’t be too late.

 

_He’s already forgotten what she said her work is. Their father would be appalled that he and Tomas are drinking with anyone in employment in any case. She’s captivating, the candlelight glittering in her eyes, on her wet, full lips and her teeth as she lowers the cup of wine from her mouth. Tomas and her friend (whose name he never heard) sit at the table with them, but they are silent, sullen, and may as well be in a different tavern entirely._

_She laughs uproariously, with a freedom and a huskiness in her throat that makes him shiver and kindles a fire deep inside him. He squeezes his knees together, grinning and leaning conspiratorially over the table as he flicks his hair boyishly from his forehead. She smiles indulgently at him._

_“And that,” she continues with a flourish, “is why one should always make sure one’s shoes are buckled properly when facing execution!”_

_“Tell me, Mademoiselle: is it not somewhat vulgar to laugh at a hanging?”_ _Tomas interjects primly._

_Olivier rolls his eyes at his brother. “He was a criminal, Tomas, what does it matter who laughs at his shoes falling off?”_

_“It was a very serious matter for old Monsieur Courmier of course,” she leans in across the table as well, placing her fingers in a familiar way on his forearm whilst her eyes sweep over her audience. “He had a broken nose and a bruise the size of a plum! But of course, Monsieur de la Fère, you will not have been to a public execution such as those we have here in Paris. The crowd gets quite caught up in the event. You should try to catch one whilst you are here.”_

_Was there a hint of ice in her voice and her glance when she said those words? Olivier doesn’t notice at this time whether there is or not. He raises his own cup and smiles coyly at her over the rim as he takes a sip._

 

His breath is as ragged as his horse’s when they crest another rise in the road and his eyes pinpoint the spot where he knows the crossroads will appear. Gradually, between his mount’s dark ears, the top of a carriage comes into view. An involuntary noise slips from his mouth and he presses his knees into the saddle: “come _on_ , I’m nearly there.”

                They careen along the road and ahead of him he sees the carriage door fly open. She’s wearing forget-me-not blue, swathed in a dress that dwarves her, her hair piled high on her head like the material is piled at her shoulders. His eyes are watering again, maybe from the wind, maybe not. He can’t see her expression in any case. He pulls his horse to a startled and messy stop by the carriage and he doesn’t dare look up.

                The ache of tension maintained for too long starts to worm its way up the back of his legs and around the small of his back. He leans forwards, inhaling the smell of horse-sweat and leather, kicking his feet free of the stirrups and stiffly swinging himself down. The unsteady sensation of returning to the ground after an intense ride makes his head swim and he braces himself against the horse for a moment, his head and shoulders feeling twice as heavy as the rest of his body.

                A soft touch takes his arms, turning him and supporting him. He swallows deeply and looks up, removing the hat from his damp hair.

                The daydream of riding home without the events of the past six years fades painfully when he looks at her. They are both so utterly changed.

                She looks at him in a way he has never seen her look before. There is a stillness to her, vulnerability in her fixed gaze that he doesn’t even recall from the day Tomas died. He feels his eyes sting again. There is _hope_ in her face.

 

_How lucky she is — how much luckier she could be_. _Anne smiles to herself, twirling the flower stem between thumb and forefinger and swaying her hips girlishly as she regards the young heir to the estate from the corner of her eye. He is angry, and when he is angry his lower lip juts out petulantly. Fresh from rowing with his father again he stands a little apart from her, hands on hips and feet splayed. He glares at the countryside, his cheeks flushed and a deep frown line marking the space between his eyebrows._

_Anne sashays over to him and weaves the flower into a buttonhole. She looks up and brushes his hair from his forehead, clearing the way for her thumb to smooth the furrow of his frown._

_“He is a damned old fool,” he grumbles, closing his eyes at her touch._

_She watches warily. If the two of them cannot convince his father to let them marry then she does not know what will happen. He can be rash and obstinate, and she is hoping for a life of comfort in a country estate, not a life on the run from entitled aristocrats, scraping a living for themselves where they can. He is handsome, and she is growing rather fond of him, but Anne did not leave Paris and come to Pinon for the sake of love. She will look after herself if need be; she always has._

_“He will come ‘round. I know that he loves you and will want you to be happy above anything,” she offers a smile of support and leans close to him without letting their bodies touch._

_He looks down at her seriously, and she feels an unexpected pang of emotion. The country sun has brought out his freckles and they are quite at odds with the determined set of his jaw. He is a green twenty-something, his younger brother more worldly than him and a constant thorn in Anne’s side. She has always felt so much older than her years, forced to fight and fuck just to claim her stake in this life, but Olivier has a way of looking at her that lets her feel young, excited, almost wholly the naïf that he thinks her to be._

She is dressed like she imagined a good city wife in an established marriage should dress. She’d been a little embarrassed at herself as she climbed into the voluminous skirts; always, still, she has to get into role, dress for the part in order to be the person she needs to be. But as she had got ready this afternoon there was an impatient skittering in her chest that had nothing to do with the clothes.

                Now she stands before him and searches his face for the past, for that feeling of innocent vitality that she used to be able to access in his presence. If any remains, it comes entirely from her own memories, and she withers a little and presses her lips closed.

                He looks exhausted, his face a mask of worry and doubt. There are dark smudges under his reddish eyes as he studies her quizzically. She can see he is struggling to retrieve the same moment that she is searching for.

                As it ever has, his hair curls down over his forehead, catching at his eyebrows. She smiles fondly and lifts a hand to brush it back, hoping that the familiar gesture will set them both at ease. But the blue suede glove that is part of her costume comes between their skins’ touch and makes the moment strange to her, more distant than she had meant it to be. Still he inhales sharply and brings his own gloved hand up to hers, pressing it against his cheek.

                She does not know how long they would have stood there had another commuter not shouted ahead for a clear road. Hastily moving to stand behind the carriage so that the rider can pass, she now looks with unease at the reins in her husband’s hand, at the tired horse. _Rash and obstinate_. A lightning bolt of doubt strikes her and she must know immediately that he has come for the right reasons.

                “You can tie your horse to the back rail and ride in the carriage. Le Havre is a few hours’ journey and I have a room booked for the night.” She can hear the defensiveness in her voice already; she feels herself coiling tight, ready to hurl an insult to protect herself, to remind him who offered him this opportunity. As though she herself has no stake in it. As though she can fool him like that anymore.

                He freezes and she feels a jolt of fear run through her body.

                “Come back to Paris with me.”

                She knows this look. He does things thoughtlessly, blindly, without dwelling on the consequences; it is only later that he might stop to reconsider, step fearfully away from a precipice. He wears the expression of loitering on that precipice now. Once, she recalls, they had been halfway to the altar, giggling together, hand clutching determined hand, wearing only the clothes that they had put on that morning that had since been stained by the green fields around Pinon…before fear of his father had finally caught up with him, kicked the adrenaline from him and brought them sheepishly back to the estate, begging permission once more.

                To his credit, he had always appeared guilty when reneging on a snap decision before. But now she just sees wariness, his shoulders hunched and his head tilted down. He is as worried by her answer as she is by his question. She cannot suppress the flush of annoyance though. “That was not my offer. I have done too much, been too many things in that city to…” the words that she had begun by spitting out peter away. She breathes heavily, her chest rolling with a wave of nausea, of tiredness, of tears pushing their way up. _No_. She will not give him that satisfaction.

                “It would be like me asking you to return to that estate to start afresh,” she whispers hoarsely, gazing at the ground between them.

                He walks towards her, his horse trailing obediently behind him. “Afresh? We cannot start afresh. We have done too much to one another for that.”

                She looks up into his worried blue eyes, her gaze flickering over every familiar aspect of his features. She feels her expression mirror his; panic is setting in like it did at the garrison when she had told him of her plans and he had not reacted. “Then why did you come?” her lips twist, sneering to hide a tremble.

                He shakes his head silently. Of course he doesn’t know. He just decided to ride and now here he is, unable to go ahead with her, unable to return to Paris without her.

                Fury has always been a good motivator. She grits her teeth. She can be just as stubborn as her husband. She steps forward, thrusting herself chin and chest first into his personal space. The aroma of leather, sweat and gunpowder assails her, the latter element a potent reminder that this man is not the man she lived with for a short time in married bliss. “You wouldn’t have ridden here in such haste if at least a part of you did not want to come with me.” She flicks her eyes to his lips and back up to his eyes and represses a satisfied smile. His body has taken on the stillness that she knows comes from desire held barely in check. A corner of his mouth turns down stiffly and his nostrils flare.

                “Come to Le Havre,” she purrs, removing a glove and taking hold of the grubby scarf protruding from his doublet. Her confidence has returned: waiting, being the vulnerable one whose hope was on the line; that she had found scary; but now that it is a battle of wills she is once more in her element, hopes of returning to a simpler time dashed and forgotten for now. Does she really want to rebuild a life with this changed man? A broken, self-pitying drunk? Perhaps she is not so different from him, because in this moment all that matters is persuading him to come with her. Whatever follows will be decided when necessary.

                He inhales deeply and glee bubbles up inside her. His eyes close and his lower lip juts out, his head tilts down to her and she receives his mouth gratefully with hers, her bare hand tightening on the scarf and her knuckles grazing warm skin beneath it. His hands glide around her waist urgently and she mentally curses the thick fabric and many layered outfit. He pulls her close, enveloping her, his kiss thirsty and his teeth biting intermittently at her lower lip. Despite the layers of their outfits the memory of his bare skin against hers comes flooding back, almost too much sensory information for her to take. She curves her back into his embrace, discovers much to her chagrin that her knees are trembling like a convent girl’s under the many skirts.

                They part and look at each other, a mirror image of defiance and lust in their challenging stares. They are not the people who were married in a modest country church more than six years ago; she is not the Comtesse de la Fère and he is not the Comte; for now they are just two people with unspoken, unresolved business. Finally their grips on each other loosen and wordlessly he hitches his horse’s reins to the bar on the back of the carriage. Breathing heavily and feeling her weighty hairdo fraying at the edges, she waits by the step of the carriage for him to offer his hand as a guide into its dark interior.

The light of the evening has faded and the carriage-driver clears his throat uneasily. He lights the lamps on the vehicle as Athos closes the door with a click and the horses begin a prompt trot along the road to Le Havre.

 

_“Hmm?” she looks up from her book, hearing heavy boots on the wooden floor outside the room. It’s a glorious sunny day and the window is open. Tomas stands in the next room by the billiards table, a piece of paper in one hand and an unsettling expression on his face. She sits up a little and turns on the brisée._

_Tomas puts his empty hand in his jacket pocket and appears to finger something in it. He glares at her, although it seems as though he is looking through her as much as at her. Old instincts kick in and she stands to face him with the chair between them; her heart starts to pound as she guesses the contents of Tomas’ pocket. She glances fleetingly at the upper storey window; too high to flee from, and no glimpse of her husband in the field below as she had hoped. Her lips part, but before she can make a noise Tomas has advanced across the floor, a narrow-bladed knife in his hand now confirming her suspicion._

_“Don’t you dare,” he hisses. “Don’t you even dare speak the name of my brother with your whore mouth!” She grimaces and observes the flecks of spittle now decorating the blade held towards her. Old instincts must have gotten rusty; a year earlier she would never have let an armed man get so close to her. Contentment breeds laziness, she supposes ruefully._

_“What is the meaning of this?” she growls, meeting his eyes; a duller, colder shade of blue than his older brother’s._

_He holds up the paper in his other hand without looking at it. Her own glance tells her little; the loopy italic script is difficult to make out at an angle and she does not want to take her eyes from the blade for long. She has a good idea of the letter’s contents though. Inside she feels as though she is being suddenly rent in two; part of her sinking in dejection, dragged downwards with shame and guilt, crying out for the life that she has enjoyed and the trusting, joyful husband she has come to love; but the other part of her roars like a fire doused in fuel, a desperate slum child refusing to accept that this is all that life has to offer her. Her survival instinct blazes, roused by the cruel point directed at her._

_It must show in her eyes, because Tomas catches himself in a flinch. “What will you do to me, gutter bitch?” he sneers, recovering his sense of power by shifting his grip on the knife’s handle, twisting it in the air slowly and pointing it closer to her face. “You’ll do nothing,” he tells her with smug finality. “I know what you are. I’ve always known. You bewitched Olivier, tricked your way into this household, ruined Catherine’s life and ruined mine by turn. Now you seem all prim and proper and butter-wouldn’t-melt, but I know what you’ve done. And you’ll do it again for me or else I’ll take this letter straight to my brother. Can you picture his face when he finds out what his true love really is?”_

_The knife point is inches from her mouth and she holds very still. The breeze from the window pushes a curl in front of her face as she struggles with a cocktail of fear, revulsion and panic. Wildly, optimistically, she tries a comeback: “Olivier won’t care. He’ll stand by me. He loves me and all I am.”_

_The words are hollow with doubt and she knows it herself. She also knows what Tomas will say next, because she has asked herself the very same question in many a dark hour, sleepless and lonely in her own home._

_“Then why didn’t you tell him the truth?”_

_She swallows and blinks back tears, frozen with horror at the realisation that she has lost all comfort in the life that she managed to carve out for herself. Tomas’ sadistic smile broadens and she considers how toad-like he looks, leering at her with a dark sparkle in his eye. She had seen that look the first time he had assessed her across a street in Paris, and even then, just for a moment, it had nearly eclipsed the open, sunny wonder with which Olivier had been staring at her._

_Tomas makes a vile noise of satisfaction deep in his throat, clearly thinking that he has cowed her into submission. He drops the letter to the floor and lowers the knife blade, his eyes focussing on the skin of her exposed neck as he leans closer. Her flesh crawls pre-emptively at the idea of his caresses, but she hesitates momentarily, wondering whether she can preserve what she has with Olivier, make do and survive as she once did in Sarazin’s world. Tomas pushes her roughly to the brisée and her book falls to the floor with a thud. He leans a knee on the seat next to hers. Bending in, he prepares to plunge his face forwards into her cleavage; and in a sudden snap of realisation she knows that she cannot do this. She cannot abide this. Her life in Paris had been of her own choosing (after a manner of speaking); she had decided on the best way out of her situation and she had taken it. This is not her choice now though._

_Anne’s hands leap to Tomas’ wrist, twisting, squeezing; her carefully-maintained fingernails pressing deeply into his skin. He instantly lets out a wailing cry, but she is upon him, easily pushing his unbalanced form to the ground. She pries the knife from his fingers, tearing his skin with all her strength as her nails rake across his sweaty palm. The blade seems to find its own way into his chest, and she pushes down on the hilt with both hands, grimacing at the sounds his body gives out as it makes way for the metal._

_He gasps one last sound of surprise and his body shifts beneath her, relaxing as the blood wells up in ever-slowing gouts from the wound in his torso. She pulls the blade from the body, old habits dying hard (one would not want to lose a weapon so easily on the streets of Paris), and retches a little at the noise of the knife leaving the puncture. She has never killed until now, not knowingly anyway. Her blade marred plenty of opportunists and threats, gouging thighs and cheeks and arms, but she had not set out to take a life before. She feels cold, achy and shivery, but underlying all is a furious anger at the man who just tried to take everything away from her. She must destroy the letter. Olivier must understand that she only did this in self-defence, in utter fear for her existence._

_But as she looks up to seek the letter, dismay overwhelms her. Standing in the doorway is Catherine, Tomas’ betrothed. The woman’s face is sculpted in horror, but it is mingled with something else — vindication. It had not occurred to Anne that Tomas might have mentioned the letter to anyone else before coming to her with his foul proposal. Before she can explain, Catherine’s voice rings out, calling for the Comte._

_Nausea rising inside her, Anne manages to get to her feet, trying not to look at the body there, nor at the blood that covers both of her hands. It is warm and slick but rapidly drying, becoming sticky between her fingers as the warm summer air continues to flow through the house from the open window. She hears a rush of feet on the stairs and lets the knife clatter from her hold. Perhaps he will not care about her past. Perhaps he knows what Tomas is — was — and he will have no problem believing what she has just experienced. She is abject with misery by the time Olivier reaches the room, knowing that if she had truly trusted his reaction she would have explained her childhood and past to him long ago._

_His expression crushes the small part of her that hoped that she had underestimated him. She knows men, especially privileged, wealthy men, far too well; they will not see one of their own at fault when they have the opportunity to blame a woman, and a woman with a background of petty theft and concubinage is an especially appealing scapegoat. He picks up the letter and leans against the doorframe for support. His face is as pale as Tomas’ corpse. She watches his reaction in morbid fascination, never once expecting to hear herself condemned to death from her husband’s own lips. Anne is dragged from the room by the staff; Olivier refuses to meet her eyes._ Coward _, she thinks. Her fury has found a new target and she will nurture it for however many hours she has left in this world._

 

Inside the carriage, Athos hesitates, glancing first at the space beside his wife, where her voluminous skirts trail along the cushioning. She notices him pause but does not move the fabric. He makes himself sit awkwardly opposite her, shifting his seat a little and grimacing at the pressure from the unyielding leather of his trousers. Her eyes narrow a little and she smirks. He glares at the countryside beyond the window, already wondering what on earth he is doing in the carriage. The intoxication of possibility that he had felt on the ride to the crossroads is fading and he imagines Treville reacting to the news that his new Captain has left without notice. He sees Porthos’ disappointment, left alone by the three men who were meant to be his best friends. But he has always been excellent at compartmentalising his feelings over such things; he allows himself a stab of hopeful abandon, thinking how suited Porthos would be to lead in his stead. Treville would be happy with that too.

                Anne is watching him closely. He wonders whether she really thinks they can have any kind of life together that resembles their married days in Pinon. She had seemed so different when he arrived at the carriage, a delicate, humble and mature woman with barely any resemblance to the capricious, confident wife he had known then; so utterly different from the vengeful ghost of a murderess that had pursued him nearly a year ago.

                Now her face rests somewhere between curiosity and confusion, and he wonders how much of that confusion is her questioning her decision to invite a man who has done her so many wrongs into her carriage. He swallows. This line of thinking always makes him thirsty. But instead of brandy or wine, the taste he already has on his lips is hers; rich and spiced and a little too sweet. He bites the inside of his bottom lip and considers the floor of the carriage, concentrating on the view of his scuffed leather boots and her dainty black-toed shoes peeking from beneath her blue skirts.

                He is oddly apprehensive of being alone in the carriage with her; he feels a little like he did on their wedding night: tentative, but full to the brim of a longing that he is terrified will overpower him. It will be a long journey to Le Havre in this hot silence and he wonders again how it could be possible to entertain a life together on these terms.

                “I can practically hear you thinking,” she muses, finally looking away from his face to the darkness outside. “You should relax. Try to get some sleep, you look exhausted.”

                He frowns sharply at her, but the tone of her voice is simple and light, and her face is inscrutable, lit only by the dimmest glow from the carriage lights outside. It is a demand for trust from her, but no matter how hard he tries he cannot evaluate this scenario against all her help in bringing Rochefort down. Too many years have been spent on convincing himself that she was a liar and wicked killer. But the one persuasive instant that he latches onto is her rescue of Aramis; that was the work of a friend, even if all else could have been framed by the particularly paranoid as attempts to get back into King Louis’ good books. It had been on her successful return with Aramis that she had asked Athos to meet her at the crossroads. That was the deed that she knew might persuade him she had changed, truly wanted to move on with her life.

                With these thoughts roiling in his mind he finally slips into a light and fitful sleep, his head rolling against the wall with the movement of the carriage. She smiles across the gloomy interior, relief softening her features and the line of her shoulders.

 

_The vision that confronts him at the top of the stairs is like nothing he could have imagined. His chest tightens and he is glad that the brisée stands mostly between him and the corpse of his brother. He can barely bring himself to raise his eyes to Anne’s imploring face. Thoughtlessly, automatically, he bends to retrieve a piece of paper from the floor. He scans the words quickly; Anne is known to many denizens of Paris’ underworld already. She is known more commonly as Milady de Winter, a street thief and the missing concubine of a crime lord and pimp called Sarazin: her disappearance with a deal of her boss’ money has not been forgotten. The letter-writer thanks Tomas for his assistance in this matter._

_But he knows all this already. He looks up, confused. She is begging him now, words tumbling from her mouth that he barely hears. Tomas attacked her, tried to force himself on her._

_He looks again at the letter, wonders with a smile whether she and Porthos ever met on the streets._

_Her response is silent disbelief. The staff have their arms wrapped around hers, they are pulling her backwards and Catherine is shrieking for her death. “No, wait!” he remembers himself, letting the letter drop. “Wait, you can’t kill her! She was defending herself!” He rushes to her side, shoving the house-keeper away with an open palm. He wraps his arms around her protectively, pulls her close to him and looks at the three others in the room. “Have you no mercy?” They are staring at the couple in revulsion. Catherine puts her hands up to her mouth, covering a sound that is somewhere between a gag and a sob._

_He looks down at Anne, kisses her forehead, her eyelids, her mouth. She blinks up at him wearily, but there is relief on her face. He takes her hands in his as they stand over Tomas’ corpse. “Nothing will change,” he promises._

_Something is wrong though. His wrists feel cold and he looks down; the blood from her hands is spreading over his, travelling up his arms. It is viscous, thick, but it moves quickly. He looks up and meets her eyes, both of them rooted to the spot in fear. The blood is welling from Tomas’ wound again and it spreads in a pool around their feet, rising higher over his boot toes even as he watches. It is as though it is inside him now; he feels his vision filling up with the red liquid as he lets out a muffled cry, grabbing Anne closer._

_Everything around them is red, darkening. He holds her tightly even though he cannot see her, feels his breath failing, his feet float from the floor. The sea around them forces itself into his mouth and nose and it tastes like old wine. A wave rolls through the liquid, buffeting them against an unseen wall. He was sure the window was open, why aren’t they swept outside? They are pushed against the wall again, with more force this time. His head hits first, the blow a little cushioned by the thick fluid that suspends them._

 

The carriage clatters over a rather large stone in the road and his head rebounds from the wall where it had rested. He sits up and gasps, the chill night air making him cough as it takes a moment to realise that it is not Tomas’ cold blood filling his lungs. He gags drily as the thought occurs to him though and he runs a shaking hand through his hair.

                Across from him Anne is asleep herself now. He hopes her dreams are more peaceful than his. He stretches his neck first to one side and then the other, pulls down the glass of the carriage window and leans out cautiously, twisting around to look up at the driver’s silhouette. “How far to Le Havre?” he calls as quietly as he can whilst still being audible over the crunching of the wheels and the regular hoof beats of the horses.

                The silhouette shrugs. “Half hour or so,” comes the reply.

                Pausing before he retreats back inside the carriage, Athos asks whether the man has any brandy. “I’ll pay extra,” he adds, hearing the driver’s wearied sigh. There is a clink as the figure at the front of the carriage leans sideward, rummaging in a bag. He stretches an arm back with a glass bottle in his hand and Athos leans out as far as he can, wrapping his fingers around it gladly.

                Settling himself back down and closing the window he is relieved to see that Anne has not woken. This is another change that he will not be able to reverse easily for her. It has become a habit and more often than not an emotional crutch; to make himself feel better when he knows he should; to make himself feel worse when he knows he deserves it; to make himself feel something when nothing comes; and to make himself stop feeling when there is just too much of everything.

                He uncorks the brandy grimly and takes a swig, idly wondering what purpose this particular bottle will serve. The dream was not entirely unfamiliar; he has had plenty of similar visions before: alternate reality after alternate reality where he hadn’t been such a craven traitor to her, where things had appeared simpler to him, infused with the benefit of hindsight. These gave way to crueller dreams when she returned from the dead; they became justificatory of his actions, dwelling no longer at Tomas’ corpse, but rather at the hanging tree. He had never seen her hang in reality, but he had imagined it to the end countless times.

                He takes a deeper swig of brandy this time, thinking to repress the emotions that are gathering like storm clouds. He has to swallow hard past the lump in his throat now, the alcohol betraying him: where he wanted an anaesthetic he finds that this bottle is only enhancing the guilt, regret and loathing. His eyes are damp and he shields them with a gloved hand; as though through sleep and the dark carriage she would still see, and would view it as weakness; not something to be soothed away like the hot, youthful tears of frustration he used to release as a response to his father’s pig-headedness.

                All of a sudden a thought strikes him that makes him grin darkly: he feels as though he is in a confessional. The little window in the carriage door, the uncomfortable seat — the even more uncomfortable sensation of re-examining one’s sins in detail — he supposes that must make the driver, or Anne, his confidante. How many ‘Hail Marys’ for having my wife hanged, father? And how many for not doing the job properly, letting her continue to steal and murder and inveigle herself into court these past few months? How many for giving the damned a second chance? And how many for doubting their change of heart?

                The bottle is nearly empty when houses begin to line the street in a regular fashion. The change of road surface as they clatter onto cobbles wakes Anne, who yawns languidly and arches a brow at the vessel in his hand. She shivers sleepily in the misty night and reaches out for the brandy, polishing the last few gulps off to take the chill off the air. Automatically, she hands the empty bottle back to Athos, who equally automatically accepts it from her and recorks it.

                The carriage soon comes to a stop outside a central inn. The port town never quite sleeps, and despite the indeterminate hour there is a steady trickle of people on the roads making their way back and forth to the estuary and the seafront. Athos steps down from the carriage, glad to be able to stretch his legs after the cramped ride. He stands by the steps, waiting to help Anne down, but reconsiders his proffered, gentlemanly hand when he sees her pause, framed in the carriage door. She looms above him like a church idol, her hands steadying herself on each side of the opening. Her hair has found its way free of its plaits and rolls in many places now; dark strands dangle messily around her face and suddenly he is overwhelmed by the desire to plunge his hands into the tangled depths of it, teasing with his fingertips at the pins and grips keeping it just barely secured. Her lips are slightly parted, as they often are, and he sees the distinctive gap between her front teeth. Her eyes, heavy-lidded with sleep only recently left behind, rove over the front of the inn before settling contentedly on him. He stands below her, head tilted up and adoration in his heart.

                Snatching his open palm back, he instead reaches greedily for her waist, pressing the side of his head against the front of her bodice. His hands slide to her sides, clutching fistfuls of the rustling, stiff material of her skirts. She gasps quietly, and he thinks it sounds like a noise of surprise, but soon he feels her fingers twine in the thick hair at the back of his head. She leans into him a little, careful to stay balanced in the doorway as she does. After a moment that Athos could have preserved for a lifetime she untangles her fingers and strokes the fringe back from his forehead. “Help me down, Olivier,” she murmurs, and without a moment’s hesitation he obeys, scooping her into his arms easily, taking her weight and lowering her gently until her feet meet the flagstones. She steadies herself with a hand on his chest, closes her eyes and leans her forehead there beside her hand.

                They pay the driver, who takes Athos’ horse to the stables at the back of the inn. They enter the building and ring the late bell at the empty bar. A weary man appears and looks expectantly at Athos, whose eyes are fixed on Anne’s profile. Anne speaks to the man, explains that she sent word ahead of their arrival and they are shown to a room up the creaking stairs.

                Anne thanks the innkeeper, steps into the room, feeling Athos follow close behind; it is as though she is being shadowed by a pup on a leash or some street child attached to her with raggedy string. She smiles, thinking of the merry dances she used to lead him on around the grounds of the house at Pinon. She is not usually nostalgic, but she so wishes she could condense her life down to those few months, to forget the before and the after and to take on the role of a normal woman; she supposes normal women don’t have a care in the world. No need to worry about where the next dress or even meal will come from; no need to fear the past catching up with her and ruining it all. She can imagine herself as this woman, but can she truly become her? Athos is the only person who knows enough about her, enough that if he could forget her past then she would stand a better chance of doing so herself.

                His hands are on her shoulders as he stands behind her: in her mind he is the key to releasing her from all the evil she has done.

                He gazes at the back of her neck and head, wondering what she wants from him now, what she’s ever wanted from him; wondering whether he’ll ever know for sure.

                She sighs loudly, moves to turn around, but his grip on her shoulders tightens for a minute and stays her. He takes his gloves off, throws them onto the bed, and strokes his bare fingers across the plait of hair wound above her forehead, simultaneously grazing along the skin just below it. Deftly, gently, he feels out the metal points holding it in place and begins to pluck them free, discarding them onto the floor with deliberate disdain. The plait unwinds from her head and he uses his thumb and forefinger to part the three bundles of hair trapped in it, before his fingers delve deep into the rest of the elaborate construction, teasing at the pins holding it together, making her feel unbalanced, light-headed as the bunches holding tightly to her scalp slacken, tumbling gratefully away with gravity’s pull. She sighs again, but this time with relief, and she tilts her head back towards him, the movement causing the last few loops of hair to slide down, curling in confusion around her neck and shoulders.

                She removes her own gloves, lays them on the chest of drawers to her side and unclasps the silver chain holding the neck of her short over-jacket together. The mechanism pricks the skin under her short, practical fingernails and she puts the tip of her thumb in her mouth, tasting a tang of iron. His hands are resting at her waist now, fingers curving around the sides of her bodice and thumbs stroking up and down at the back, perhaps waiting for permission to begin plucking at the laces holding the stiff material together. She turns purposefully now, facing him: she needs to see his eyes, try to figure out that inscrutable expression.

                He is frighteningly still, his lips compressed together and his gaze unblinking. She cannot recall this stillness from before; it has become a defence, a barricade that she has ascended a few times in the past year, and one that she will break through tonight. She raises her hands, palms facing each other as though in supplication, and they inveigle their way into his open collar, fingers pushing under the neck of his scarf. His skin is hot and she imagines that she can feel the pulse of his blood in her palms. His expression hasn’t changed and he continues to hold her in his stare, so she proceeds, loosening his scarf, pulling the warm material free and tossing it aside. She makes herself move slowly, cautiously, waiting for a signal from him, some indication that he is not worrying about her motives or thinking of where he should be instead of here, now, with her. She needs him to come to the precipice with her, to rush wholeheartedly for it, not to think, not to look at her with pain or pity or pride; just to remember how they once were together.

                Her fingers begin to pry at the buttons of his doublet, the thick leather yielding reluctantly at first but soon coming apart with a satisfying popping noise. Finally his hands shift on her waist; she knows he can untie a bodice from in front of her and soon his fingers are making light work of the cords, grasping under each side and forcing the material to loosen. Her own work stops when his belt buckle gets in the way, as his pauses at the bottom of her jacket. She looks up at him and he chuckles unexpectedly. “We did not used to wear so much,” he says quietly, a little shyly she thinks, trying to recover a long-repressed way of being.

                She basks in the sound of his words, smiling blissfully back at him and his fingers push under the front of her jacket, hands sliding around her shoulders between the outer layer of clothing and the white linen top of her underdress. She shifts her shoulders and arms so that he can push the tight jacket back over her body and guide the sleeves down past her elbows, past her wrists, letting it fall with a rustle and a slither of silk to the floor. With her arms free again she pulls his belt loose, undoing first the large buckle at his navel and then the smaller one holding his scabbard in place; he finishes working his way to the top of her bodice and she inhales deeply as the material shifts, releasing the tension the tight-lacing had maintained on her torso. Gently she lets his weapons drop to the floor with a series of heavy thuds.

                Discarding them seems to free him from something, and her work on the rest of his buttons is slowed when he leans in to kiss her. His hands are still working at the back of her dress, one inside the bodice, cold against the sweaty underdress still covering her hot skin. The respectable city wife’s outfit that she donned so deliberately half a day ago creaks and groans as he forces his way into it. She gives ground before the sudden onslaught of passion, stepping back a couple of paces to brace herself against one of the bed posts; Athos follows her every movement, barely breaking contact with her as she moves. She pushes him away for a moment and his blue eyes blaze, his face indignant but also pleading. She hauls the heavy doublet off his frame and pulls him back towards her by the thin material of his shirt, hearing a few stitches snap in protest at her rough treatment. Her hands rove around the back of his neck, across his cheeks, down his chest and around his ribcage, feeling the contours of his body, the goose bumps raised by her touch and the wiry hairs that trail down his sternum. His hands are lower than her bodice now, squeezing through the layers of skirts, one on each ass cheek.

                They part again so that he can pull her bodice off, impatiently bringing it up over her head rather than pulling the laces all the way clear. The heavy, cumbersome layers of skirts follow; she leaps clear of the pile of material as soon as the last button is undone. In just shoes, stockings and underdress now she pushes her body up against his, making certain he can feel how hard her nipples are between the layers of linen they each wear. She plucks at the buttons of his trousers as their mouths make up for lost time, Athos pressing insistently against her front and the bed pressing equally uncompromisingly at the back of her legs.

                Before long all further clothing has been discarded and they are lying together above the bedclothes, twisted around each other so that neither is quite beneath; neither on top. His face is buried deep in the void between her throat and her hair, biting, kissing her neck, inhaling everything about her. Her leg is wrapped over him, his hip-bone digging into the soft flesh of her inner thigh as she grips as close as she can to him. His cock, hot and hard, is pressed into the hair at her venus mound and she rocks her hips towards him, rubbing her body against it. She grazes her teeth over his collarbone, the skin pale as milk; kisses his shoulder where it is dotted with freckles. Her fingers trace the line of his spine, settling in the small of his back, where she presses the knuckles of her thumbs into the dimples just above his ass. His own hands feel as though they are everywhere at once; open-palmed, gliding over her skin, up and down her back, around her ass cheeks and the thigh that lies possessively over him. She tingles at his touch, feeling the small hairs on her skin stand up wherever his hand passes.

                He begins to move his kisses lower, over the hollow between her collarbones, his beard tickling her as his head moves down between her breasts. He holds her thigh, squeezing a little as he rolls her fully onto her back. A throaty noise emerges from somewhere in the depths of her being as his hands move in to cup each of her breasts, thumbs circling her nipples. She bites her lips and stifles a wild laugh and the impulse to remind him that the last person she lay with was the king of France. The king of France would never have considered paying her this much attention; he did not have as much to give even when what he had was focussed on her in its entirety. She is not sure any man has ever paid her as much attention as Olivier, earnest and loving and eager to please the wife he could not believe he had won.

                Athos keeps moving lower, nipping at the skin of her belly, planting butterfly kisses along the red welts she still has from the wrinkles in the material under her tight bodice. His hands follow his mouth, stroking the underside of her ribcage, circling her middle and grasping each of her hips, thumbs again stroking the sensitive skin with feather-light touches that drive her half mad. He buries his face momentarily in her public hair, inhaling deeply before retreating lower, past the aching, wet centre of her. From her neck to her knees she shivers, patches of moisture left by his mouth all over her skin chilling in the night air. He is on his knees between her legs, his hands stroking the backs and insides of her thighs.

A mischievous smirk lighting his features, he grasps her left leg and lifts it, shuffling forwards on his knees until her own knee is level with his chest, her calf resting on his shoulder. She marvels at her husband, to whom she taught so much whilst maintaining the innocent demeanour of the girl he needed her to be; but whose readiness to give it all back to her had touched her to the quick even then.

                He opens his mouth, turning his head to bite gently at the soft flesh on the inside of her knee, leaning forward and changing the nip into a kiss, pressing his prickly facial hair into her skin. He follows this up with more, gradually lowering her leg from its ungainly angle as he works his way up the inside of her thigh. She arches her head back into the duvet beneath her. Her hands are shaking a little as she winds them in the bedclothes, her smile wide as she surveys the dark folds of the bed curtains above them. One moment his mouth cannot reach its destination soon enough; but the next, when it does, she feels as though she were not ready for it: his tongue licking, pressing with deliberation on the nub of her clitoris. She coils on the bed, muscles in her legs and back twitching impatiently. His beard is longer than it used to be and it only adds fuel to the fire in her, tormenting the sensitive skin around her sex as he pushes his tongue deep, wraps lips around her, kisses and nudges and breathes gently on hot wet skin that cannot be cooled so easily.

                Athos looks up over the gentle curve of her body, seeing her as a snowy hillside; breasts; shoulders; chin; and knees to either side of him, a landscape he has missed so sorely. He works her as he remembers she likes, as he could never forget, feeling her grow slicker at his touches. Her thighs are burning under his hands, trembling, flitting between liquid relaxation and spasms of ecstasy. He feels a sharp pain in his scalp and sucks air in through his teeth as her fingers knot themselves tightly into his hair. He laughs, his mouth close to her, teasing her with the ripple of air from his lips. “Don’t stop,” she hisses furiously, pulling a little at his hair as she speaks.

He obliges, soon bringing her to a crest, feeling the tendons between her thighs and her cunt tense like rope, her knees collapse in towards him, squeezing his torso. He kisses each leg again, wetly savouring the saltiness of her skin under the more personal flavour that fills his mouth and beard. Coyly he raises his eyes, sees her propped on her elbows, her own eyes wide, mouth a little slack, her hair a wild halo of curls and tangles. He crawls up her body, letting his skin drag against the dampness between her legs before collapsing against her mouth, his cock pressed against the outside of her again. She kisses him deeply, her tongue speaking gratefulness, pressing hard into his mouth. Her arms and legs envelop him and she pushes her hips against him insistently, as insistently as his own body is telling him what he needs to do next, and sooner rather than later.

She lies beneath him, absolving herself of the responsibility she might have felt expected to take with any other lover. With Louis all she ever did was give; so she reclines heavily, feeling the woollen blanket beneath her itch her skin, as rough and coarse as his entry is smooth. She cradles his head in her hands, kissing his gasping lips as he thrusts inside her, cautiously at first, finding a rhythm that he can control. She feels his muscles bunch and ripple as her hands weave their way over his shoulders, back, ass and legs. The odd welt of scar tissue disturbs his skin and she strokes these areas delicately, slotting the tips of her fingers into grooves and furrows, caressing old injuries with querulous motions.

His hair falls across her face, tickling her cheeks as it trails over her with his movements, until she brushes it from his sweaty forehead. He plunges his face into the crook of her neck again, his mouth finding her earlobe as his motions become more deliberate, his thrusts harder, deeper. She groans and rolls her head towards his, pulling his hips to indicate that he can go harder still, deeper still. Both of them are sticky with sweat even in the cold early morning that has begun to make its presence known; Athos puts his hands underneath her, changing the angle of her pelvis so that he can indulge the invitation of her tightening grasp. Shortly she feels his face slacken against her neck, his shoulders bunching with a deep shudder as he slows; rocking; clinging to her desperately.

                With only a cursory clean-up they are soon under the blanket and duvet together, their warm bodies close on the still-cold linen sheets. Athos is asleep in no time, his head cushioned in the crook of her arm and his beard scratching the skin of her breast. Anne is awake a little longer, her fingers toying absent-mindedly with his hair, her eyes unfocussed in the morning twilight that now highlights just how thin the room’s curtains are. Seagulls begin their chorus outside and she recalls the last time she came to the coast, intending to flee France. That had been as his behest: leave or I will kill you on sight when we next meet. Her free hand reaches up to her chest where his sword-point had rested that day nearly a year past; her fingers wander from there unconsciously up to her neck, feeling the scar there with reverence. How she wishes the man who did that to her had not been the same man who lies peacefully next to her now. Her eyelids are heavy. It has been a long night; a long week; a very long six years.

 

_No one offered her a hood; that was evidently not how things were done in the country. Quickly, quietly, a shameful thing to be disposed of; she was not a spectacle meant to inform others of their moral duty, she was a dirty little secret ripe for an unmarked grave. She cannot speak for fury as Olivier turns and rides away from her, but she hopes her image will haunt him forever: dignified in the white summer dress, clutching forget-me-nots (the token of love that grew all over the estate) and an expression of utter contempt etched on her face._

_She was not meant to die like this. The things she had survived; hunger, homelessness, hopelessness, friendlessness; only to arrive at a place where she felt truly safe. Wanted and loved and cared for and now damned in a matter of moments. She looks down at the smith Remi, who is about to lift the handles of the cart beneath her. Her husband has left. The priest has left. No one remains to see her death except a miserable blacksmith, who looks apprehensively up at her._

_Clutching at straws, she forces her face into a smile, blinks back tears of resentment and fear. Remi flinches under her gaze, looking away and then back at her, wrestling with something inside himself. He looks up again, sees his master’s horse still in view, and lurches forward in fear. The surface under her feet slides away, the cart bumping unevenly across grass overlaying tree roots. She tamps down a wail, fearing that no noise would come out around the rising nausea anyway. The itchy rope slowly presses tighter into her skin whilst she wills her legs to lengthen, her feet to pin themselves to the cart that keeps moving underneath her. She sucks in air through her nose, as much as she can get, filling her lungs as far as her bodice will let her._

_With a jolt, sickening and shocking despite the fact that she knows it is coming, her toes finally have nothing to brace against and she drops. For a moment it is like all the times she has jumped from an apple tree into her husband’s waiting arms, a bundle of fruit held at her side. But she is pulled up short, biting her tongue hard as the noose finds its angle. Blood fills her mouth, trickling from her lips with the forward tilt her head has been forced into. The corners of her eyes ache, she wishes at least that she didn’t have to swing, could just hang there and be done with it, but she cannot control the frantic spasms of her legs. Letting out a blood-flecked sputter she notices the sky darkening, feels as though her eyes are closing even though she cannot make them do so voluntarily. Her neck burns, her throat burns, her chest feels like acid has been poured into it._

_Next, she knows, Remi will be cutting her down, pulling the rope from her neck, taking his knife to the restricting bodice and helping her flailing body to get the air it craves. But this time it doesn’t happen. The rope around her neck stops feeling so prickly and she blinks her eyes open, seeing Rochefort’s sneer inches from her face. His bony hands tighten on her throat and he slams her against the wall of the palace corridor. The darkness is still popping at the edge of her vision and Rochefort’s features flicker, alternating with Richelieu’s, with Tomas’, Sarazin’s and finally even Athos’, the smell of wine strong on him as he and D’Artagnan argue over her._

 

She is conscious again instantly, eyes snapping wide. For a moment she struggles to remember where she is, but then she sees Athos’ face on the pillow next to hers. He is awake as well, facing her as he lies on his side, a frown of concern colouring his already serious features. She rolls from her back to her side, facing him conspiratorially, her hands tucked under her cheek.

                He reaches a palm out, stroking her messy hair and tucking it behind her ear. There is cold sweat at her temples and she can feel the flush in her cheeks. She bites her lower lip, rolling it between her teeth and breaking his stare. “I am sorry,” he murmurs.

                Her eyes snap back to him. How could he know what she was dreaming of? There is a weary resignation in his look, and she wonders how long he has been awake for. “For what?” she manages, speaking so quietly she almost doubts she has said it aloud at all.

                “Where would you like me to start?” his eyes crinkle as he smiles, but the expression remains a sad one. His fingers trail behind her ear, down the side of her neck. They trace the scar across her throat lightly and he swallows, a glassy film covering his eyes before he blinks it away. “How could I ask you to forgive me for this when I cannot forgive myself, Anne?”

                 “Maybe I do not need to forgive it,” she says bravely, but she is unable to meet his eyes. She frowns, sighs deeply. “I just want my Olivier back.” The words do not sound like hers. She could not have imagined herself ever speaking like this a few months past, but she has seen Rochefort’s scattershot cruelty, observed the isolation and desolation of women in the royal court, even felt pity stir when she told Sofia Martinez of her lover’s death. She has seen enough recently to wish for the security she once felt at Pinon; to fool herself that with another chance things could be different; the present could erase the past, and by virtue of his coming back to her, Athos’ past actions would be altered. The man who came back to her would be a man who had stood up to Catherine, refused to do his duty, a man who had saved her that day rather than abandoning her to the purgatorial years that followed.

                His jaw tightens and the frown that mirrors hers deepens. He runs a thumb over the furrow in her brow, as she used to do so often to him, and he wipes away the drop of saltwater that overflows her unblinking eyes. “I think…” he pauses. She knows this is not easy for him either; this is a conversation he has postponed having even with himself, keeping it at bay with as much wine as it took. “I think Olivier died the day that you were meant to die. Perhaps even at the same time as Tomas. Those brothers were a cowardly pair.”

                She does not attempt to stop the tears as they well up. She does not sob; they do not wrack her body; they just roll desolately from her eyes, catching in her lashes as they tumble out. She does not really know what she is crying for: maybe it is for herself, for her parentless childhood, her youth lost to Sarazin’s training in drink and pleasure-giving, the long years of struggling to find a way of making life pay her what she knew it owed her. Maybe also she cries for disappointment that people mature only as a result of their experiences; the man she shares this bed with knows now that he should have sympathy for a desperate young woman trying to leave the streets behind, but this is only because the man he once was did not know this, still thought as aristocrats do, would have been appalled had she told him the truth. This man finally believes that his brother tried to rape her; but he had not believed her when it truly mattered, and what sort of love could not take its partner’s side when the cards were on the table in a situation like that?

                “Anne,” his voice cracks as he watches her. He shuffles closer to her, wrapping his arms around her shoulders. She presses her forehead into his bare chest, accepting the comfort he offers, knowing, finally, that it can only be temporary. “Anne, shh. I’m so sorry.”

                After a quiet few moments postponing the future a little longer she giggles wetly, hoping that it will sound lighter than it does as she smears the tears from her cheek on his skin. “Do you know…I have killed people for their clothes? What sort of life can I have after stooping to that?”

                If her words surprise or trouble him she cannot tell. The only reaction she feels from the safe, dark cocoon of his arms is the deep sigh he exhales and the way his grip on her tightens. “I do not think you should come back to Paris,” he says finally.

                “Do you not want me to?” the words blurt from her lips as she pulls away a little and looks at him. She grits her teeth. Those words and the prying, hectoring tone sound much more like she expects herself to sound.

                He tilts his chin sardonically, gives her a pointed look. “I think you deserve better, Anne. You can do better. Return to Paris and you will be too tempted to…to return to old habits,” he leaves it unsaid, but she imagines he might have added _like me_.

                She narrows her eyes, cat-like. “And what am I to do in a brand-new city? Do you not suppose that I would return immediately to my craven ways; take the easy route to comfort?”

                “You know, what you said at the garrison was true,” he deflects her question, thinking of the ceremony between D’Artagnan and Constance that had prompted him to make a desperate attempt to join Anne at the crossroads. “We are bound together. I will always be your husband, unless you wish for a separation. Even then I will always be the man who bears greatest responsibility for what you became, all that you did to survive in the years since we both left Pinon.” She watches him warily, a strange jealousy stirring at his words; he cannot claim guilt for all the people she has killed for Richelieu and for herself. Those deaths are hers, and the idea of him drinking himself senseless whilst speculating how many ex-lovers she has knifed makes her lip curl.

                “You should receive an allowance. A percentage of my pay as a Musketeer, and what is left of the estate savings,” he looks at her earnestly, his eyes wide, pleading for her to take his offer.

                As before, she worries about his motives. “I have told you that I will not take your pity money…” her gaze flickers searchingly over his face, trying to assess him.

                “Not pity money,” he says adamantly. “Your right as my wife. Your dues. It may not be much, Anne, but you may consider it a security that you have not had since…well, since happier times.”

                She thinks of the boat leaving later that day, of England drear and misty. London is meant to be a city full of opportunities, but knowing that there is money assigned to her, for her use only, arriving regularly; no matter its source it would be something dizzyingly new for her. An impetus to add to it, dwarf it with earnings made in whatever way she chooses, not in whatever way she must. Hope rises in Anne’s chest and she nods, but cannot look at him when she does.

                His shoulder relaxes visibly at her nod and he reaches out to stroke her arm. “And you will go back to Paris then?” she asks, not sure how much she cares what the answer is. He will not come with her, and she is no longer certain that she wants him to. Last night had been the glimpse of their past that she had longed for so desperately, needed so much. But in the cold light of the morning, yesterday’s good wife costume crumpled at the foot of the bed and the chill of her nightmare still not quite dissipated, she knows that he reminds her of the worst times of her life as much as of the best.

                “Yes,” he says simply, raising his eyebrows a little. “I cannot imagine another life now. Although you gave me a happy glimpse of an impossible one with this night. Once, we might have been very good together.”

                He smiles ruefully and she joins in, finally looking back up. “I am glad you came.”

                “Will you write to me from England?”

                She smiles broadly, rolling her eyes. “No. Maybe. If I have news that concerns you.”

                “And I will duly send a grateful reward for such news,” he smirks. She returns his look but with an added glare that says _don’t push your luck_ and he knows that he must get up, begin the journey back to the garrison and think of what on earth he might tell Treville and the others. Finally he feels as though they are both just who they are in the present; the Comte and Comtesse de la Fère have at long last been put to rest; he is a Musketeer and she is a woman on a new path, leaving deceit and murder far behind her.

 

They stand in front of the inn by his horse, the streets busy with morning bustle. Her blue dress is creased and the bodice is a little skew-whiff; he had protested that getting them off was one matter but helping her put one back on was an entirely new skill. Her hair has been painfully, painstakingly tamed, brushed into obedience so that it falls in natural chestnut waves over the deflated blue puffs of her jacket shoulders.

                He presses his coin purse into her hand. “This is all I have for now. Send me your address; I will find a way for the money to reach you.” He observes her chagrined expression and bites back a sigh of exasperation. “Anne, I know you don’t want a handout. But what would you have considered it had I come with you? You may have more on you now because of the reward, but soon enough I would have found employment that you might not be able to obtain so easily.”

                She purses her lips and narrows her eyes, hefting the bag. “We’ll see. I won’t make you take it back this time.”

                He places a hand on each of her arms, unconsciously sliding his thumbs back and forth, stroking her through the fabric. She looks up at him with a sad grimace and lets herself be drawn close. They share another deep, longing kiss, bittersweet with wishes for another life, another chance where they could forget all that they have done to each other and to their blame-filled memories of each other in the intervening six years. Athos puts his gloved hands on each side of her face now and kisses her lips again. “I never stopped loving you.”

                She closes her eyes, smiles slowly. “I know. And I did love you. So very much. That was never a lie.”

                He steps back, nods at the past tense that she uses and turns to his horse, hoisting himself into the saddle in one fluid motion. Anne looks up at him. She is standing at the bottom of the low steps, and he stares at her as greedily as he first did on that sunny afternoon years ago, on his first journey into Paris unaccompanied by his father. She meets his gaze, smirks knowingly and sways her hips a little, the skirts rustling around her. “Farewell, Captain,” she murmurs.

                He taps a finger to the brim of his hat and nods before squeezing his impatient horse’s sides and setting off at a leisurely trot. He does not dare turn around, fearful that she will have already turned away herself. Finally he feels tears leak and he sniffs into the back of his glove, pushing them away grimly. It is going to be a very long ride back to Paris; the hangover after yesterday’s intoxicating sprint for the crossroads. He is grateful for the clearer roads as he leaves Le Havre, urging his mount into a faster pace, letting the wind dry his cheeks and sweep away the smell of her that still coats his clothes and skin.

Athos thinks of Paris, of the likelihood that he is returning to a severe disciplining from Treville; the fact that he knows he won’t be able to explain a word of this to any of his friends; the imminent distraction of war with Spain. He laughs at himself. What a fool not to go with her! But the punishment Treville might mete out will be nothing to the punishment that he remains convinced he deserves for so much that he has done. He will never forget the look of distress on her face as she woke from a nightmare of which he could only imagine the content. He will never stop feeling guilty for that; but he is glad that he does feel guilt now, not just a crushing doubt, conflicted with loathing for her mixed up with his own self-pity. He will take whatever Treville gives, and he will endure the judgemental, worried glances of Porthos and D’Artagnan. He will be glad to be a Musketeer again.

**Author's Note:**

> Pretty sure you can't get to Le Havre in a day by carriage, but I'm going on half-remembered references from the episode, so let's just go with it.
> 
> Apologies if you believe in their great happily ever after - this was my attempt to process scenes that absolutely cut me up in 2.10 but that infuriated me at the same time.
> 
> Title is from the song by Stars on the album 'Set Yourself on Fire'; the song One More Night on the same album was another great inspiration.


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